Twenty Miles

Let me tell you how my husband and I willfully nearly killed ourselves.  “Oh boy,” you are likely musing to yourself.  “Did you guys hike Mount Fuji?!  Journey to a remote shrine?!  Ski down challenging runs in the mountains?!”

No.  None of those things.  We… walked.

In today’s edition of Dumb Shit We Do, we were trying to figure out how to get ourselves into some Tokyo trouble this weekend, as per usual.  Jan jokingly said, “I think our Pasmo (transit pass) cards are low, we could save money and just walk to Tokyo.”  Huh.  Well, a couple beers and an hour on Google Maps later, we decided we would walk from our front door in Sagamihara all the way to Shibuya in Tokyo which is about 33 kilometers (20 miles), because we really like adding trophies to our Things That Sounded Good At The Time wall.

While we usually sleep in on Saturday until at least noon like obese raccoons who like karaoke too much, we woke up at 8am.  We strapped on our walkin’ shoes and headed out on our journey, full of piss and vinegar.  I had my pedometer app going on my phone so we could track our progress.  Below you will find a Captain’s Log of events.  This is not hyperbole or exaggeration – these things actually happened.

Mile 1.5:  I am getting a sunburn from the blazing glow of my superior fitness level, because my feet don’t hurt.  Jan tries to air out his armpits and accidentally flings his tablet to the ground.  The tablet survives.

Miles 3:  The conversation flips between how cool we are for doing this, and how doing this makes us so cool.  We are prancing through the streets of Machida like a gazelle that just took a shit, except with one of those Snapchat filters that makes us look like Bambi and puts flowers in our hair.

Mile 5:  We are bobbing and weaving through random neighborhoods along the train line.  My right hip is starting to hurt but I say nothing because I am not a loser and my hip is fake news.  I would later find out that Jan’s ankle was in dire straits but he is also not a loser so said nothing.  We happened upon a Family Mart and decided we had earned ourselves an egg salad sandwich and a couple of road beers.

Mile 6:  My trust in Jan’s navigation skills are eroding as quickly as the ligaments in my ball-and-socket joint.  This mistrust is confirmed when we accidentally start wandering through a college campus.  Apparently drinking an Asahi is not acceptable on college campuses.  We are stopped by a security guard who says stuff in Japanese to which I respond, “wakarimasen” which means “I don’t understand” and also “please don’t take my beer.”  Our beers are confiscated along with our dignity.  

Mile 6.5:  We had to walk uphill.  “This is so easy, I’m not even sore!”  “Me neither!  Yee-haw!”  is how the conversation goes, as we contort our faces like Stepford wives and bury the agony into the depths of our bitter souls.

Mile 8:  I almost got hit by a truck because “GOD THESE TRUCKERS DRIVE LIKE FUCKING MANIACS HERE” and Jan responded with “Look at that stupid little kid in that stupid thing on his stupid mom’s bike.”  We are happy people, and my hip is not crumbling and Jan’s ankle is not in the throes of peril.

 

Mile 10.5:  We decide to take a break and get some food.  We stop in at a place that advertises having an English menu, which is super because then I don’t end up accidentally ordering a single soft-boiled egg and a side of scallions.  They do not have beer which is very unfortunate.  We order on a machine which spits out tickets and we sit down.  Like a dozen people who got there after us get their food, and we start to wonder if perhaps we do not understand how this works.  We stay because it feels too good to sit.  We finally discover that we accidentally ordered takeout, so we eat our meals out of Styrofoam containers at the bar like goddamn savages.  There are three dressings and I don’t know what any of them are.  Little kids are staring at us.  I use the bathroom before we leave, and the seat isn’t heated which is an unreasonably heartbreaking discovery.  My hip feels FINE!  It feels GREAT!  YAY LET’S KEEP WALKING I want to die.

Mile 12:  I’m not sure if it was some shift in the lunar cycle or something, but everyone and everything we walk and/or limp past is horrible.  I mean, we’re reasonable people so we refrain from punching faces and looting but man.  Hey lady on the blue bicycle with a right hip that doesn’t feel like it has a handful of acid-soaked rocks in it, why are you so goddamn smug.  Why are your boots so cute.  I hate you.  I would later come to find out that at this point, Jan’s ankle had committed seppuku and was dead.

Mile 13:  I point out a military helicopter above us.  Jan responds, “I hope it falls out of the sky and lands on top of me.”

Mile 14:  Nothing matters anymore and everything I thought to be true is a lie.  I can’t feel my feet and my husband is walking like a geriatric mule.  We decide to pop into a minute mart to get some ibuprofen, only to be reminded that alphabets here choose art over simplicity and we have no idea if these pills will make our pain go away or make us shit our pants.  We buy whiskey instead.

Mile 16:  I can smell the color blue and drugs don’t even exist here so that is weird.  

Mile 16.5:  Jan remembers that I am married to him so legally have to deal with him in sickness and in health, and informs me that he doesn’t even think he can make it to the nearest train station because his ankle is so dead.  I am disappointed because I am totally ready to walk 5 more miles HAHAHAHA nevermind I fell in love with him all over again because he made it okay for me to want to rip my entire leg off and cauterize the stump with a Bic lighter rather than walk any more.

Mile 18:  We are steps from the train station.  We are in a random neighborhood where tourists would never be.  We walk (I’m using that term loosely at this point) past a guy who says exactly what I think but do not say every time I see a Westerner here – “Hey, white people!  Where are you from??”  Come to find out he is an Italian tattoo artist staying with hosts in Tokyo who are from Oregon.  He was energetic and kind and when I showed him my pedometer app that showed how many miles we had walked he was very surprised and impressed.  Validation from a random stranger who spoke the Englishes made me feel as if our journey had not quite been in vain.  We bid him adieu and hobbled like pirates to the station.

Mile 18.5:  We arrive at our home station.  We consider stealing a scooter from the Pizza LA delivery fleet but instead decide to buy a pizza with hot dogs in the crust, and Jan accidentally punches me in the face while trying to tell the cashier that we’ll be waiting outside around the corner.  It was the least of my injuries, and retaliating at this point would be like setting fire to a swatted fly.  He could barely stand upright and his foot was visibly swollen through his shoes.  I am floating in and out of consciousness fantasizing about my couch.

Mile 19.1:  We arrive at home.  I pour a pint glass of wine, eat some weird shrimp mayonnaise pizza because this is my life now, and we watched Braveheart which I had never seen before.  Which was great, because there is no better way to wrap up a day of misery than watching a guy have his wife murdered and then be castrated.  Real upper, that movie.

Today:  I am eating cheese and drinking highballs because I built up a well-deserved calorie deficit yesterday, tomorrow is a federal holiday, and I intend to exploit that properly. 

Captain’s log, signing off.